


rest for the wicked

by steelplatedhearts



Series: War Paint and Cyanide Pills [4]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their life is not always destruction and fire and smearing blood on the walls, no matter how much they'd like it to be. Sometimes their life is just quiet, normal moments.<br/>(As normal as they can get, anyway.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	rest for the wicked

**Author's Note:**

> This is less of a story and more of a series of drabbles.

Shosanna’s let her hair go dark, blonde fading to brown—not because she wants to, but because when being held captive by a group of dangerous people with a grudge against her stupid _salaud_ , hair dye is impossible to get.

But Raoul comes for her, as she knew he would, and her first order of business once back in civilization (after a hot meal and a shower) is going down to the shops and getting a box of dye—L’Oreal, shade 9 ½ BB.

She wants to do it herself, but dying her whole head is a whole different animal from touching up the roots, and her joints are stiff as it is. So she surrenders the box to Silva, with strict instructions to “not fuck it up.”

He carefully dons the little plastic gloves and gets to work. Shosanna leans her neck against the cool porcelain of the bathtub, watching him mix the dye. She tells him about the traffic, and the stupid people at the store, and how some other woman had tried to take the last box, forcing Shosanna to elbow her in the stomach. She tells him about her fight with the self-checkout, and the man who she’d almost run over in the parking lot, and about the thousand and one mundane details of going to the store that she never thought she’d miss until she couldn’t experience them.

He listens quietly, and when she lapses into silence, he picks up the slack.

He tells her about the dangerous situations that Bond’s been getting himself into, the hacking war he’s been in with Q, about cutting all of America’s power for 24 hours because he could, about starting a civil war in some tiny country, and when she falls asleep, soothed by his even tones and fingers running through her hair, he tells her how much he’d missed her.

She wakes up about an hour later, when he’s rinsing the dye out.

“There you are,” he says, patting her hair dry as she stares into the mirror. “Back to yourself again.”

She is not fully back to herself—not yet. There are still dark circles around her eyes, her cheeks are still gaunt, and she still has the remains of a split lip.

But her hair is as it should be, and the fire is back in her eyes, so it’s a good start.

*   *   *   *   *

Q walks down into the tube, elbowing his way through the crowd. His head is still whirling with equations and tests and wondering if he’s ever going to get that prototype back from Bond.

(Popular opinion is saying no, with odds of 100-1 against. Q’s thinking of calling Bond up and offering to split the office pool with him if he can just hang on to all of his equipment so Q can win.)

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice the well-dressed couple that he ends up sitting next to when he finally makes it on the train.

But they notice him.

“Hello!” a cheerful voice says in his ear, and Q yelps, turning to see Silva smiling broadly at him. Shosanna’s sitting on Silva’s other side, looking angry. Of course, that might not mean anything, Q thinks. Shosanna always looks angry.

“…Hello,” he says warily.

“How are you?” Silva asks.

It’s such a bizarre situation that all he can manage is, “Fine. How are you?”

“Excellent, thank you for asking,” Silva says.

“You two look nice,” Q says, brain running on autopilot as he takes in Silva’s tuxedo and Shosanna’s glamorous red dress.

“Thank you, darling,” Silva says. “We’re going to the opera.”

“…The opera,” Q repeats. “Are you going to burn it down or something?”

Silva laughs uproariously as Shosanna scoffs. “It’s his birthday,” she explains, lips pursed. “He wanted to go see an opera, so here we are.”

It’s almost appallingly normal for them, and Q says so.

“I know,” Shosanna says, despairingly. “I offered to let him go after Bond for the week, but no, he _insisted_ on the opera.”

“Next year, _ratita_ ,” Silva says fondly.

“Well, this is my stop,” Q says, standing.

It is not his stop. But walking the rest of the way home would be preferable to spending another minute on that train.

He dials Eve’s number as he walks up the stairs. “Eve! You’re never going to believe who I saw in the tube.”

*   *   *   *   *

Shosanna still has nightmares, sometimes.

She screams in her sleep, for _mama_ or _papa_ , for _Amos_ or for _Marcel_.

She never properly wakes up during these episodes, so Silva crawls into her bed and holds her still, stroking her hair and whispering stories of the fires they’ve set and the bones they’ve broken, until her breath evens out and she grows quiet again.

When she wakes up in the morning, she’ll ask him what the hell he’s doing in her bed.

“I had a nightmare,” he’ll say, staring up at her, eyes wide and as innocent as he can make them. She’ll roll her eyes and hit him, and they’ll carry about their day like nothing happened.

*   *   *   *   *

“You could pick anything on the entire radio and you pick _Bowie_ ,” Silva says flatly.

“Of course,” Shosanna says, head bobbing along to the music. “He’s about a million times better than that shit _you_ listen to.”

“My music is _sophisticated_ ,” he retorts.

“Well, Bowie’s like 85% glitter and diva,” Shosanna says. “I’m surprised you _don’t_ like him.”

“Does your entire musical taste consist of things like this?” he asks.

“Not entirely,” she says. “I do enjoy a good 80’s power ballad now and then.”

*   *   *   *   *

Sometimes Silva sees older, distinguished-looking women with severe faces and sharp eyes walking down the sidewalks. He doesn’t do a double take—he’s much too in control of himself for that, these days—but he misses a step, his breath catches.

Shosanna’s never quite sure what to do then.

Nine times out of ten, they end up in a little café somewhere, Shosanna with her coffee—no sugar, no milk—and Silva with his tea, laden with milk and sugar until Shosanna tells him it’s not technically tea anymore. They watch the other patrons and imagine how they’d kill each one.

He will still be jumpy for the rest of the day, scanning the crowds ahead for someone that looks like Her.

*   *   *   *   *

Shosanna’s beloved Clio finally dies on a Tuesday, out in the countryside, in the middle of a rainstorm.

She’s driving along, resolutely ignoring the fact that Silva’s singing along to his precious operas. She thinks she’s just about developed a plan to take back control of the radio when there’s a large _clunk_ and then the engine just cuts out.

She groans, smacking her head against the steering wheel. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that we just have to change the tire?”

“Most likely,” Silva says calmly. “I keep saying this car’s a piece of shit anyway. Now we can upgrade to something with real _style_.”

“Oh, I suppose your idea of style means some horribly ostentatious sports car?” Shosanna says, hitting him. “ _Te baise_ , this is a great car.”

He snorts. “It’s complete shit.”

The tow truck comes, hauls them away to the nearest shop.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing for it,” the mechanic tells them. “It would be cheaper just to buy a new car.”

Shosanna’s face falls. “Are you sure?”

“Of course he’s sure, darling, that’s why he said it,” Silva says. “Think of it this way—we can get any kind of car in the world, now.”

“ _Any_ kind?” Shosanna says, raising an eyebrow.

“Any kind,” he promises.

“Good. I want another Clio,” she says. “In red, if you don’t mind.”

“Ay, you and your sentimental attachments,” Silva says, exasperated. “Fine. We’ll get another Clio. But only if I get to pick the next car after that.”

“Promise you won’t try and make the new car fail earlier than it should?” Shosanna asks.

“Promise,” Silva says, hand over his heart.

“Deal,” Shosanna says, spitting into her hand and holding it out. After a moment’s hesitation, Silva does the same, and they shake on it.

*   *   *   *   *

“If you wanted waffles so much, why didn’t _you_ order them?” Shosanna growls, blocking Silva’s fork with her knife.

“Because, _ratita_ , they taste so much better coming from your plate,” he says, avoiding the knife and grabbing a bite.

She steals all his hash browns in retaliation. “Not so high and mighty now, are you?” she says, mouth full of potatoes.

While she gloats, he takes the rest of her waffle. “I’m still mighty, darling, never fear.”

She punches him in the face. He breaks a dish over her head. They are escorted out.

“Well,” Silva says in the car, “there’s another restaurant we’re banned from. What is that, the eleventh?”

“Thirteenth,” Shosanna says.

“Think we can hit 20 by the 1st of the month?” Silva muses.

Shosanna smiles, a sharp, wicked grin. “You’re on.”


End file.
